


/prayer to god

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: CSA, Depression, Detailed descriptions of infections, Drug Addiction, Gen, Gratuitous 'I Spit On Your Grave' references, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Religion, School Reunion, Slurs, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-23 20:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16626293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: "I'll give you something to remember for the rest of your life."-Jennifer Hills,I Spit On Your Grave, 1978





	/prayer to god

One time in middle school many years ago, Matthew Mara stole a film that his big brother had rented. Davey always said not to touch his shit, but it was too interesting to pass. A partially nude woman on the cover and big, bold, red text. He watched it and then got beaten to all hell by Davey for touching his things. He'd argue it was more than worth it.

It was a film titled  _I Spit On Your Grave_ , and it was about a woman who was brutally sexually assaulted, and then took to violently murdering the perpetrators. Now at first Matthew would argue the assault was a bit gratuitous, but it was more than made up for with the revenge. It was an act in catharsis. Davey said he didn't like it, he said Jennifer didn't  _need_ to be as brutal as she was. Of course he'd say that kind of thing. He was a moron.

Matthew would be more than happy to handle a little switchblade like that. He'd find the "holy" man who took his innocence in that church all those years ago and neuter him like a dog. He'd slice the shaft, perhaps down the middle, so it'd split like the tongue of a lizard. It was almost merciful considering what he did. If Matthew even remembered his name, he'd find him and do just that. Carve the flesh off of his testicles and peel it back so he could tear away the little peach pits inside. He wanted that man both impotent and dead. So that when he went to Hell, he'd never even have the chance to impregnate anyone. 

In that sense, he empathized with Jennifer Hills, her plight and her crime which, even according to the film's cover, "no jury would ever convict her" of.

He always remembered that film, for some reason. It was one of the few that really stuck with him. Considering he was kind of an arthouse dweeb, it was hard to impress him filmwise. After awhile it all becomes pretentious drivel. In that sense, maybe  _I Spit On Your Grave_ was the only  **real** movie he'd ever seen. It was the only one that really "made sense" to him. And he'd seen quite a few movies, it was one of his myriad interests once upon a time.

He'd only been thinking about it because, knelt in the church at night, he was reminded of a scene from that movie.

It was iconic. Jennifer walked into an empty church after her assault. Her face was blank, but her eyes were ablaze with power, as she too knelt, with a rosary in hand, if memory served him correctly. And she prayed. Something along the lines of "dear god, forgive me for what I am about to do". It was artful, and well-acted. Camille Keaton proved herself as one of the best right then and there, really. 

The difference being that a jury would absolutely convict Matthew Mara for what he was about to do. 

He wasn't really in the right or anything. Sure, Dee and her crackpot friends got him into this mess that was his life, and sure, society had homeless men piled up by the door with no intention of ever helping. But did that put Matthew in the right for what he was about to do? Not at all. So he prayed. Only when nobody was around, or at least, it seemed that way. It was horrible letting people see him like this. Humiliating. He hardly believed in God, but he prayed regardless. 

See, a high school reunion was coming up. Matthew always wondered why they ever had those events. High school was, undoubtedly, the worst time in anyone's life. (Unless, of course, they were Matthew Mara. Then it was only second-worst.) Even the "popular people" that seemed to fit into every high school movie still had to deal with, well,  _going to high school_. Everyone had an issue with it. Some of them didn't know what 2+2 was, others were getting their shit beaten in daily by people who didn't know what 2+2 was. Reunions were only there to remind people of the shittiest part of school life, and for now-rich assholes to prostrate in front of their ex-peers to feel special. Matthew, originally, wasn't even going to go. When Charlie told him about it, he was all sorts of prepared to skip out on the whole thing.

But then he remembered those rich assholes. And how he was poor, and how much he needed their money. Oh how  _desperately_ he needed it. And there he was, in the church, because he knew tomorrow night he was going to rob these people. He knew tomorrow, he'd be shoving necklaces and wallets into his pockets whilst filling up on  _hors d'oeuvres_ like the greasy little pig he was. Then he'd sell them for no doubt a hefty profit, with a belly full of pigs-in-blankets.

He just couldn't take it anymore. Hungry, exhausted, and covered in the trademark circular patches raised by ringworm, a fungus which more often affects animals. Those little red halos went from his chest and belly down to his inner thighs. They danced far too close to the skin of his groin and made his body itch with an almighty fervor. It itched so bad he wanted to scream. And the infection on his throat was getting worse. It swelled and oozed and dripped on his neck. He'd already lost a few toes to frostbite, which made him walk with a trademark totter, he needed dental care and the area where that Chinese man cut in to take his kidney was looking pretty bad, too. He needed help. He needed  _money_.

He needed it more than they did.

Yet the guilt preemptively nipped at his ankles, or perhaps that was the December air. He clasped his hands together -- his  _cold, filthy hands_ \-- and prayed, like he was still a believer. Like he'd never stopped believing in God at all.

"Heavenly father," His voice rasped. "if you are up there, forgive me for the sin I'm about to commit. Please."

Matthew broke down and wept at the altar, feeling like the scum of the earth.

* * *

 

At just after 8 in the morning, Matthew was awoken in his pile of garbage by a dog sniffing at his pus-filled neck wound. It lapped at it, then lifted leg and pissed on him. He screamed,  _I'm not a fucking toilet!_ , but dogs don't speak English. This one was most likely just frightened by how loud he was and ran away barking. Now his face was wet, and he already  _knew_ this day was gonna be a bad one, if that was to be taken as an omen.

He'd need to get cleaned up if he were to appear at this party.

To show his face like this would be no better than simply showing up naked. Which meant today would be dedicated to a bit of self-care, at least, as much as he could do. Starting with the beard, of course, and his ratty clergyman's shirt that desperately needed repair.

Frankly, a shower would probably be a good idea. Taking to his nice old shirt, he rummaged through his pile of things in search of something to fix it. He kept a tiny sewing kit with him, one he'd bought at CVS. Generally he used it for closing small wounds, but this seemed like its hidden true purpose. He'd make this old thing look nice in time for that party. After all -- nobody would ever suspect a priest.

Matthew had re-written his story time and time again because he wasn't sure if people would really  _believe_ that he was let back into the cloth. But then he remembered that Dee didn't even know it was an issue to begin with. The priesthood, after all, is not some job you can leave and then come back to. Luckily, that didn't seem to be common knowledge. So he'd decided: He was re-accepted into the church, and currently living with... uh... someone. Perhaps he could pin it on a bishop. Or one of the nice old ladies who used to donate money every week. Surely they didn't care about that, but he wasn't willing to risk it.

And his shirt looked like it had never seen suffering. He folded it with his nice black pants and shoved it under his crappy, threadbare blanket. 

Bath. Shower. Shower time.

Normally one in his situation would go to a homeless shelter. Matthew didn't trust those government-sanctioned hellholes, or how they were run. He'd heard stories. They were barely any cleaner than just living outside. Matthew wasn't prepared to share a space with hundreds of other people and cockroaches. Damn, if only he had a gym membership or something. With no idea what houses would be good to break into, he was stuck thinking for quite some time.

His only option was the leaky urinal at Paddy's, but he didn't want those  _fuckers_ knowing he was still homeless. It'd break the illusion. He'd have to perform some top-tier espionage shit. By that of course he meant he'd just walk in really quietly, perhaps through the back... No, the bathroom was much closer to the front. Hopefully "The Gang" would be too busy arguing about some coked-up nonsense to notice him. Not likely, as the floorboards creaked like the dickens in that garbage pail of a bar. But it was all he had, other than finding the nearest body of water and hurling himself in blindly. He considered cranking open a fire hydrant, but with the weather, it'd probably freeze onto his skin.

The doorknob warmed in his palms, he was so fucking nervous he could weep. (And knowing him, old Crybaby Cricket, he probably would.) He slipped through the door as soundlessly as possible and pressed up against a wall. 

Dennis was posted up at the bar as usual. Matthew wanted nothing more than to spit down his fucking throat and crack his neck in half. He really wanted to. To shove him off a motorboat, and grind his face to a pulp on the blades.  _I Spit On Your Grave_ style. When he told people he was teabagged all over in high school most of them thought it was a joke. Ha ha, funny. It had to qualify as some form of sexual assault. Dennis had definitely gotten the tip of his dick between Matthew's lips once or twice.

Charlie was also there. Matthew's animosity towards dirtgrub didn't extend so far. All he did was take photos. But as a fellow victim of bullying and extensive childhood sexual assault, he figured the little rat would  _do_ something. A bystander. At best, Matthew could feel comfortable knowing that he was miles above Charlie in intellect... And also always weighed significantly less than him. Everyone told Matthew he was a bit of a chubster, but he was almost certain it was just an empty insult. Charlie was always a pudgy thing. There was some point where Matthew would have proudly argued he was  _drop-dead gorgeous_ in comparison to Charlie, but sadly, during that time he'd actually been a priest.

And now, having sex wasn't really fun.

More of a business thing.

Anyway, they didn't seem to notice Matthew enter, thank god. Charlie was arguing proudly about... something.

"So that's why I'm saying. Dogs are smarter than cats."

"No, what you just told me means that cats function outside of baseless commands given by human beings."

"Maybe they just suck at 'em."

Ah. Classic. Dennis was openly a cat person. And rightfully so: Both Dennis and most cats loved nothing more than running around slaughtering and gutting pigeons barehanded with no sense of mercy. Furthermore, male cats had barbs on their penises. Dennis may as well have those too, because anyone intelligent would never let him inside them. Charlie was also a cat person... maybe? Charlie just seemed like an animal person. But his knowledge on biology was debatable.

"If I have to listen to this shit fer another  _second_ I'll gut myself." There was Frank, ducked behind the bar. He was so short Matthew didn't catch him. Frank locked eyes  _directly_ with Matthew, but said nothing. Matthew's chest tightened, and he scrambled to the bathroom.

Nobody was in there, which meant Matthew had enough time to catch his breath... Just in case, he locked the bathroom from the inside. Why was he even able to do that? Seems like a design flaw on the bar's part... Whatever. If he'd had more time, he'd tack an 'Out Of Order' sign on the door. But now he was alone and safe in this bathroom. Tentatively, he stripped out of his several layers of clothing and neatly folded them on the floor. This was oddly exhibitionist of him. He felt... uncomfortable.

No home meant no privacy.

Shrinking into the ceramic curve of the urinal, he pulled the handle. This caused the busted pipe to spray down in his direction. It was a lot of water, this urinal was  _very_ broken. He managed to wet his whole body  _and_ his hair. There was no shampoo or body wash on hand, but there was a fair amount of hand soap. He took to his hair first, which was caked with filth. The dirt came out in his hands, moistened into grey and light brown. Loosened, it all came out in the water. Splattering into the ceramic bowl and onto the floor in a mucky waterfall. It ran off his back like he was a duck. An oil-soaked, filthy duck. A duck half-drowning in a spittoon. 

And then he was cold and wet, but clean. Patting himself with paper towels. People were banging on the door.  _Shit. Shit. Shit._ Matthew threw his torn clothes over his body before anything else, though his skin was still damp and his hair still dripping. He unlocked the door and dove into a stall.

"Hey bitch!"

That was Mac's voice. Oh, Mac. Retard sidekick to Dennis. As animosity stood, Mac hovered between Charlie and Dennis on Matthew's "I-wanna-kill-you-so-bad" scale. On one hand, he was obviously a moron and massive homosexual being manipulated by Dennis' will. It wasn't entirely his decision to beat up Matthew, or partake in repeat suspicious sex acts, for that matter. But on the other hand, oh  _on the other hand_ , he still did those things. He did things and Matthew was angry about it. Still, even after all these years. Because Mac and Dennis and Charlie were still  _ruining his life_. Even though Matthew was an adult. One with control over things. 

Anyway, Matthew rose his feet up so it was almost like he didn't exist. "Shit, someone turned on the bad urinal... Charlie!" Mac stormed out. Matthew gave it about twenty seconds before popping back out. Leaving the bathroom would be harder than coming in. If someone heard the bathroom door open, they'd probably be like...

_'Woah, I thought nobody was in there.'_

Or something. 

Matthew opened the door and closed it again. Maybe that'd work. He then gave it a few seconds. He didn't hear anyone talking... Maybe they were all MIA for the moment. Which meant it was a solid chance for escape. He slipped out the door--

"Boo bitch!"

Matthew shrieked and fell over onto his ass. Frank. Goddamnit  _Frank_. Son of a fucking bitch. "The boys are gone. What're you doing?"

"None of your business, jackass. leave me alone."

"Ya locked the door to the public shitter."

"Yes I  _know what I did_ please go away."

"Why's your hair wet."

"Leave me alone!"

Matthew kicked the old man in the shin. Frank grabbed his leg and hissed as Matthew hastily collected himself and began to make a run for it. But that bastard got a hold of his jacket and tugged him back. Jesus, he was strong for a man in his 70's.

"Hold it, street urchin."

"Stop calling me a  _street urchin_ goddamnit!" Matthew was nearly in tears. Already. This goddamn early. "I was a man of the cloth! It's not my fault!"

"Calm your tits! Jesus, you're like my wife." Frank shoved Matthew into a booth. Immediately Matthew expected Frank to pull his pants down and fuck him like an animal. Surprisingly, thankfully, that didn't happen. "What's up with you, this is the first time I've ever seen you not covered in dirt."

"High school reunion."

"Who cares? Don't they all know you're livin' in the trash?" Frank said trash like  _treeaaash_. What an accent.

"For one thing, no, they don't. And two, I have my reasons."

"...You tryn'a fuck my daughter?"

"N-no!"

"Good choice."

"I'm not gonna tell you why I do the things I do, because I hate you."

"Aw come on, Cricket. Ain't I ever done anythin' for ya?"

"No. No, you haven't." The old man wasn't quite as awful in Matthew's memory. Probably because they didn't attend high school together. Then again, how awful did you have to be to train up Dennis Reynolds into the man he is now? 

"I think you're schemin'. And I like schemin'. Talk to me."

"God damnit, if I tell you will you leave me alone?"

"Maybe."

Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose, deciding that was... possibly a viable enough answer.

"I'm gonna show up as a priest and steal people's money."

" _Ooh_." Frank grinned. Like a tiger. A balding one. "You're gonna rob everyone at that damn party? I like it. I like that, Cricket. I can help ya." Matthew squinted. It seemed every time he accepted help or work or really anything from these people he ended up regretting it immensely. The scrape through his neck was all he needed to remind him of that.

"How much 'help' do you plan on giving me."

"I'll just let you borrow Charlie's shower, ya still look like shit."  _Choahhlie_. 

"...If he has a shower why doesn't he use it."

"I don't know, I ain't his dad." 

"Why do you even wanna do this. I'm not giving you a cut, I need the money."

"Because it's funny?" Frank shrugged his shoulders. "It'll be funny to take Dee's wallet. I've done it before, it's hilarious. There's like, never anything in there, but it's still funny."

"What? I'm not gonna steal from Dee."

"I thought you hated her."

"Fine, I'll use your fucking shower! But you  _can't tell anybody I'm doing this_ , or so help me, I will--"

"Yeah yeah, whatever. Let's get outta here before the guys get back."

Frank ushered Matthew out the door. They walked awkwardly in silence for a long time. Did Frank know how to drive? Actually, was he able to? Could his legs reach the pedals? Could he see enough above the dashboard and steering wheel? Matthew knew how to drive. Unfortunately he sold his car, much like he sold everything else he owned years and years ago. A white car, pale and pure as ivory soap. It was small, but dependable. Over time, a man of Matthew's ilk becomes more comfortable close to the ground. He couldn't imagine piloting the monstrous Range Rover that Dennis owned, floating forty feet above the ground with no support. It seemed frightening.

The apartment building Charlie and Frank lived in was a shithole. It smelled, every hallway and room and wall smelled like something weird and suspicious. Matthew had lived in garbage dumps more dignified, and he had no qualms saying that. He'd been raped by crackheads cleaner than these fucking floors.

_Ha ha ha._

As for the apartment itself, it was no better. If anything, significantly worse. So much garbage thrown around, Matthew couldn't even see the floor. 

"Hold on a sec..."

Frank grunted, clambering over the still opened couch-bed in the center of the room and shifting a table. One covered in various cooking appliances and food products. Behind it was a door, which he managed to tug slightly open, enough for someone to squeeze in at least. "Alright, that's the bathroom. Don't be in there too long, it runs up the water bill."

The bathroom was surprisingly clean, other than a toilet that smelled like blood, piss and vomit. It also appeared to be filled with purple wall paint. But the shower, in its largely unused state, was quite clean. One of those combination shower-bathtubs. The bath faucet was stuffed shut with paper towels. Presumably, baths used more water than showers did, and Frank didn't want Charlie drawing a bath and using up their money. Seemed kinda gross, considering that Frank was financially loaded due to myriad money laundering schemes. Whatever. Matthew turned the water on. It was clean and warm, nothing like that urinal he cleaned himself in.

And they had shampoo, too. No idea why Charlie never used it.

The cheap soap and shampoo made all the dirt that remained on him slide off. For once he felt... weightless. Like all the filth and maggots were adding ten pounds onto every inch of skin they touched, making him drag his feet like a rock golem. He almost forgot that his hair was once the color of wheat fields, of straw and corn and other farm-y things. For the past few years it always looked like he was some kind of muddy Kurt Cobain impersonator. It was all a distant memory, the days of the flaxen-haired priest with the good heart and soul.

The ringworm marks still dotted his body. But Matthew figured he wouldn't be getting topless for once. The towels were fresh, save for one that was covered in blood. He made a note not to touch it. He wrapped himself in the clean one beside it.

Matthew couldn't remember much of his mother. She'd left before his family moved to Philly, so he must have been around 12 at the oldest. But he remembered the way she felt. Warm skin, a soft touch. A blessed goddamn woman, she was. The towels felt like her. When he would weep after church, she never knew the reason, and probably never learned it, but she held Matthew to her chest with her somewhat fatty arms. People always said Matthew had her eyes. If he could change one thing, anything at all, he'd have somehow found a way to stay with her. Sure he was little, so little that nobody cared what he thought, but anything was better than staying with his father and Davey.

Maybe his life would've turned out different.

No Philadelphia. No Dennis, no Mac, no Dee. No miracle water stain. No living homeless in a pile of garbage.

His skin dried off quickly, and part of him wanted to forget the whole plan and just stay in Charlie's bathroom forever. But this was not some alternate universe. This wasn't paradise, or a fantasy, it was real life and he was Rickety Cricket and he was poor and dying. Only one thing left to do.

A can of barbasol and a knife sat on the rim of the sink. Not Matthew's choice, but he'd take it. The beard had to go. He hadn't touched shaving cream in awhile. He felt like goddamn Helen Keller touching water or some shit, rubbing it across his chin and some other parts of his body. His legs in particular were looking a little chimpy. Sure he'd be in long sleeves and pants, but he wanted all his bases covered. He'd even trim his chest a little.

The cold air landed directly on his body, breathing onto his unprotected flesh. He barely even recognized his own skin. Pale and white, with a few nicks on it. This little knife really wasn't accurate. He'd left his priest clothing back at his trash pile-turned-home. But now he was looking hundreds of times better than before. He nearly wept.

He stepped out, still holding the knife. Frank turned towards him.

"There's my boy! Father Cricket!"

"Don't push it."

"Say, if you have any cash left over after this, why not throw it my way?"

"I said I wouldn't give you a cut."

"Ah, come on. I just mean--" Frank's eyes darted towards Matthew's hand. "Izzat my toe knife?"

Matthew balked.

"Your  _what?"_

* * *

 

_Who the fuck clips their nails with a knife?_

_Who the FUCK leaves it near a can of barbasol?_

Whatever. Everything was fine, and okay. It wasn't the worst thing Matthew had ever put near his face.

At around 7 PM he was posted up outside of their old high school. He looked spiffy, save for the missing tooth. As long as he didn't open his mouth. That was a bummer, he'd never be able to do a full smile for the rest of his fucking life. Then again, what did he even have to smile about?

Money.

He wasn't sure when to enter. He wasn't sure when he was comfortable with entering. Part of him, the anxious part, said he should never enter. He should run, run far from here. Go start a new life in a different country. Change his name. Become a poet, the kind whose work would be appreciated much more after he passed away. But that wasn't really an option. This wasn't a movie. If it _was_ a film, it was definitely more along the lines of a Gaspar Noe film. Arthouse fuckfests of debauchery and filth and hatred. His life had always been much more  _I Spit On Your Grave_ than anything else.

 _It's time_.

He stepped through the front door, hands hidden in his small pockets. He stepped up to the table with the name tags. Ingrid Nelson was looking absolutely lovely. Not that she didn't have beautiful hair in high school. She always did.

"Uh, hi."

Ingrid looked up from her phone.

"Oh, hi there. Uh, which name tag is yours?"

"It's Matthew Mara."

"Matthew? No shit." She shuffled through the name tags for a moment. "You look completely different. No leg braces! No goth make-up, either. What's with the get-up?"

"I'm a priest, Ingrid."

"Ah." She passed Matthew his name tag. (They were all written in this awful-looking elementary school font.) "That's the last profession I would've expected, honestly. What happened to becoming a goth rock star?"

"It was unrealistic." He shrugged, sticking the tag to his chest. "See ya."

Inside were blue curtains and balloons. The booze situation looked alright, but for once Matthew was gonna decline the sauce. It'd fuck up the whole operation if he got tipsy like a moron. As much as he wanted to, he really, really wanted to. Not to mention he was jonesing for a hit of cocaine. He had a little before showing up, just enough that it wouldn't be noticeable. But now he was aching again, a hollow place in his chest wishing to be full of snow.

He could fight it.

His eyes scanned the room, he was filled with uncertainty. Where could he go? As he passed between tables, the decision was made very much for him. A hand latched onto his shoulder, turning him to face a table of... God. Who even were these people? He'd known them for years, and yet...

"Hey! Look at  _thiiiiis!"_

Matthew plastered a smile on his face. Dee began to... make noises at him. Some sort of combination of cricket noises, and his name, and the squeaking of his old leg braces. Complete with deeply retarded hand motions.

Deandra Reynolds. She made him want to fucking scream.

He assumed cocaine was called 'white girl'  _because_ of Dee. In fact, Dee was a more debilitating addiction than any other recreational drug. Dee did him more damage than heroine, coke and acid combined. And he was still mad for her, absolutely mad for the woman. What he wouldn't give to be with her. They didn't even have to be dating. But to exist, to function by her side, would be so worth it. Even if she beat him and painted cigarette burns across his pale back, even if she cut off all his fingers and toes, he'd still be there. For her. Even if she wasn't interested, that was fine. She didn't need to be into him, all he wanted was a place beside her, to just be there for her, was enough. And she knew. And she ruined him because of it.

Whatever happened in high school had to be Dennis' fault. Before they talked, before he had that secret conversation with her, Dee seemed perfectly content keeping Matthew around as her goth twink boytoy. Matthew hated him, he hated everything about him. He was sexually assaulted by that man. Dee knew, Dee didn't give a shit. Everybody knew. Few were ever by his side on the matter, but Dee laughed. And Matthew drunk in that laughter and he felt more alive than ever before. Even though he was being laughed at. For a rape. A sex crime that he was a victim of. But her laughter was like the fucking sunshine on his face and the music in his ears. And whenever her and Bill Ponderosa fucked, she made sure to tell him. She talked about how it felt. How he was such a man, with a huge dick, and he poked holes in her like he was a gun and she was a plump looking doe wandering the forest. And Matthew just smiled and shut up about it. He was just happy that she was happy. Even if he had to lick up the blood afterwards.

It wasn't funny. It wasn't at all.

But people were laughing. At her dumb stupid noises and stupid arm motions. And her stupid  _face_ , and how wonderful she looked. The Golden Goddess. With hair of spun gold and eyes that were each their own universe. And Matthew was a goddamn fag, waxing poetic about her in his head. Remembering all the ways she fucked him. All of them except the one he wanted.

"Hey Cricks, how are you! All cleaned up now! 'cept for that tooth."

Matthew curled his lips shut. The... tooth.

_GOD DAMNIT. GOD DAMNIT, HE HATED IT. HE HATED HIMSELF SO **FUCKING** MUCH._

"Uh, well actually, it's, uh, it's Father Mara again."

"Oh,  _is it_."

All condescending. That rat whore, that fucking bitch. It was all her fault he was like this. He gave up fucking everything. He  _proposed_ to the woman. He bought her a ring, one with a big diamond on it, one that cost a fortune. She didn't give it back.

"Yeah, uh, I cleaned up. I was accepted back into the cloth, y'know, god had a plan for me... took me into a deep hole, but now I'm soarin' on eagle's wings."

"Yeah, yeah,  _yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, **yeah, yeah, all that, street rat, yeah yeah yeah!"**_

Her fucking laugh. It blessed him. Goddamn rains in Africa and shit, it  _blessed_ him, and for the first time in years he felt close to god. But also the devil. Oh, like Jennifer Hills above,  _forgive me for what I am about to do_. Rob these animals blind in front of the love of his life? At some point there'd been a Matthew Mara who could, and would say no, but he was long gone, buried by the sands of time and all of the memories that came with it.

"Uh--"

"So, tell ya what Crick." Her hand got all too close to his shoulder. Matthew had to stop himself from leaning into it. "Should I put my balls on your chin  _now_ , or  _later? Huh? Huh?"_

It was followed by a crude sort of teabagging motion. That laugh again. She didn't know how violating it was, how goddamn humiliating. And he hoped she never would. Because she was a blessed dove, an angel, and surpassed all worldly punishments. She blessed him with her laughter, and her presence. "Down the hatch everybody! Down the hatch!" She clicked glasses with everyone. "But you. The father." Her eyes locked with his and he wanted to dive deep into them.

And he wanted a drink, he wanted it so bad he could cry. His stomach ached for the burn of alcohol to boil his intestines. But he couldn't. Not now.

"Alright, well, nonetheless, I say to you, peace." He came close. Real close. If he were a much worse person, he'd have copped a feel. But the warmth beneath her skin was enough. She was a cold person, literally and figuratively. Dennis was too. They both had skin of ice. And Matthew wanted it, he wanted all of it. He wished he could stay there forever, but no. That'd be wrong. As a priest, he always swore he'd never be like those other ones. Lecherous, perverse freaks. Like the one who assaulted him. A filthy piece of garbage. He swore he'd be better than them, and he liked to think he still was. "Peace be to you." He backed away and set her free.

No way would Matthew steal her things. She meant far too much to him.

"And, uh, peace be to you, my lady." He held a woman's shoulders. No nametag. Presumably she was someone's wife. His position was bad for taking her necklace, but he made a note of it. "And to you. My son." Taking the hand of the man next to her, he leaned in close. Patrick Luis. One of the only not-white-people he could remember in school. Didn't exempt him from being an asshole, but it was good to know Adriano didn't discriminate when it came to joining his douchebag gang. "And to you." Another wife. Slowly he made his way around the table, taking small things. Rings, mostly, as he took the ladies' hands, he'd slide those rings off and pocket them. That waitress had entered to distract everyone, her name was... Kris or something like that. He got all up in Adriano Calvanese's business, and stole that gold chain he loved so much. The clasp was loose. He managed to slide it off without the bastard even noticing. It hung around Matthew's neck and beneath his shirt.

Slowly revolving around the room, he blessed a few more people... pocketed a few more wallets. Necklaces. Rings. Small jewelry in general. He'd steal their fucking kidneys if they let him, they were all scum. Scum, all of them. Was Matthew above scum? No, of course not. But that also meant he was not above  _stealing_ from scum. Suburban white-trash, mostly, fucking pageant moms and soccer dads all bundled together on a dance floor. In their circles of retardation, laughing and chewing and laughing while chewing.

Feeling satisfied for the time being, he sat down at an empty table.

It was a vast plane of contemplation. The kind with plastic plates and forks on it, anyway. His pockets felt heavy. Full of wallets and jewels and money. He could have left right then and there, with all those necklaces on, hidden under his priestly garb, but he still had a good half the school to rob. Including Dennis. That bastard, Matthew wanted all of his fucking cash. It was blood money. Paying for the life of Father Matthew Mara, killed years and years ago. Replaced by this ugly, abject freak. Matthew could see him standing across the room by himself. See how it fucking feels, jackass. See how it  _fucking feels_.

"Hey. Rickety Cricket, right?"

"My name is not Rickety Cricket." Matthew turned. Tim Murphy. Another high school meathead, albeit a bit less meaty and a bit more head-y. Not a complete moron. Also not Satan incarnate, which for the high school-aged Matthew Mara, was essentially the same as being god. "...Nice to see you, Tim."

"Hey, look, I need a bit of advice here. And you're a priest, so you can definitely help me."

"Well, uh, sure." It'd been awhile since Matthew had unburdened someone in a way that didn't involve semen. It was... comforting. He'd been a good priest. "Empty your load, my son." That... still sounded sexual. Other than the 'my son' part. Unless he's into that... gross.

"So I've been trying to reconnect with my people. You know. Me and Dennis had a good thing going, I think, in high school. And I'd like to be Adriano's pal, y'know, he seems pretty cool. Dee looks lovely tonight."

"She does."

"Not as lovely as my wife, though."

"Which one is your wife?" Tim pointed. "Oh, very lovely."

"I was just hoping I could get in with their crew, maybe become friends... But Dennis seems really mad at me, and I just- I don't know."

"Well, I have been personal with these people, some of them... far too personal."

"Oh, yeah, Dennis used to put his--"

"I know." Matthew's knuckles went white as he clutched the tablecloth. "I just- I know them. All of them. We were all in high school together and..." Matthew's eyes widened, as though he'd had some sort of groundbreaking realization. "I suspect nothing about them has really changed."

"So what do you say?"

"You should stay away from those people." Matthew was deathly serious. "I mean, they will ruin your life, like they tried to ruin mine." And succeeded. Tim looked like he was beginning to get it, but they were quickly interrupted by a loud fucking tornado warning in the form of Dee Reynolds. Her and Adriano probably just fucked. Matthew hated him, so much he could just fucking scream, he was as awful as Dennis was.

"Ay-oooo! You guys just missed somethin'  _so awesome_ , that we did."

Lowering his voice and turning to Tim, Matthew tagged on one last word of advice.

"Heed my warning."

Tim seemed a little freaked out. Dennis approached the table. Ripe as an autumnal apple, ready for plucking from the tree. Matthew wanted that bastard's credit card, his cash, that ring he wore on his pinkie finger. The little necklace hanging beneath his button-down shirt.

"Hey you guys." He perched on the back of the chair, like a scrawny vulture. One with botox. "Uh, I'm here. Can you believe I actually came to this thing? Yeah, I was posted up over there, guess you guys probably didn't see me." A classic Dennis Reynolds move.  _Waiting for people to come to you_. It was something real people did, but Dennis forgot the step that involved actually having friends. 

"Nah, we saw ya." Adriano responded. 

"Oh, you did? Oh, okay well... no reason to be intimidated." Matthew could think of a few hundred reasons. Then again, Dennis would never commit such acts in public. Especially not on another man, that closeted freak. "Y'know, I'm... I'm a human being, after all. Y'know, just a- just a man." Dennis laughed. Matthew almost laughed too. What a joke.  _Dennis Reynolds? Human?_

Most humans have souls.

"Actually, we're good." Tim was the one to answer this time. Matthew was glad someone on this godforsaken planet would take his advice about The Gang. 

"Uhh! No Tim, we're not  _good_." Dennis' demeanor seemed to change on a whim. "And you're definitely not good, 'cause you haven't had a chance to hang out with me yet!"

"Um," One of those wives spoke up. "my wallet's missing."

Shit.

"Ohmigod, my necklace is missing."

Suddenly, there was the mildest of uproar as the people began to search themselves. Matthew should have left. Why did he have to be greedy? God damnit!  _God damnit!_ This was the punishment for his theft, for his avarice...

"Ah, come on, my gold chain's gone."

No, wait, he still had time.

Thinking fast, he reached into his pocket. Time to put those theater classes to good use.

"Oh, my... With all the security..." He turned away. "Th' fact you even  _need_ it..."

"Wait a second,  _Mara_." Tim Murphy spoke. "What is that around your neck?" Matthew turned back towards Tim. He must've let a chain hang out, fuck, fuck, fuck...

"Hm? Oh, that's, uh, probably just a scar that has--"

Turning himself once more left his back exposed to Adriano, who was not so kind. He grabbed Matthew by the chain and stood him up. Matthew couldn't stand against the man in high school, and he certainly couldn't now. Matthew was frozen in a state of absolutely primal terror as Adriano  _ripped_ his shirt open. In front of Dennis. In front of Dee. In front of  _everyone_. And there was the one thing he never thought would matter. 

Clean-shaven chest, and ringworm.

Unsure what to do... No, scratch that. There was only one thing left to do. Scream. Yell for help.  _Mom. Dad. Somebody! Anybody!_ The fear rocked his bones, it fucked him raw where he stood, he felt like he was going to be sick as all the golden chains and necklaces hung above his infested belly. Each o-shaped lesion peered out into the distance, locking eyes with every man around him. He screamed, because there was nothing else remaining. He felt weak, and scared. Like a child. Like when he was a child. Exposed. Unprotected. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Only now it was everyone who could see him, bared for the world to see. Raw and red and oozing.

" _I've sinned! I've sinned!_ "

"Dude, you are  **covered** in  _ringworm_ _!"_

"It's- It's her fault!" He pointed an accusatory finger at Dee. Was it her fault? He didn't know. "She told me she loved me! We were supposed to be together forever!"

"Calm down, Cricks!" Dee thought nothing of it. Matthew wanted to smack her.  _I love you, you stupid bitch!_ But if that didn't make a difference then, like hell it would now. 

"What's he talkin' about? Dee, were you two  _together?"_

_"No!"_

STOP, PLEASE, IT'S TOO MUCH!

Dennis began to point at her and nod as she continued. "Me, with him, what are you, crazy? Nooo... Yeah, I told him I loved him once, but that was like, four years agoooo!" Dennis was fucking around behind her.  _Ha ha, my sister was with him! RICKETY-FUCKING-CRICKET. WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD EVER DO THAT?_

"You two prob'ly have ringworm together, don't you?!" The twins let out a series of accusatory 'no's. Matthew's victory was small, and it didn't feel very good. Dee attempted to approach the man, but Adriano threw up a hand. "Stay away from me!... And to think I was gonna let you jack me off..."

"Waitwaityouwere...?"

Dee seemed dejected. Heartbroken. God only knew why she'd ever want that.

"Unbelievable. Let's get  _this asshole_ out of here!"

Matthew was grabbed by each arm, and hauled away before he had a damn thing to say about it.

* * *

 

The critics didn't think  _I Spit On Your Grave_ was very good. Roger Ebert sure did rail on it. Matthew never really understood why. How could something that made him so happy, also ignite rage in so many people? 

But then he realized. Some people were tantalized by the fantasy of vengeance. Those people, like himself, were foolish enough to believe it was ever within reach. Every fan of  _I Spit On Your Grave_ saw themselves as Jennifer Hills. Even if it wasn't true. Even if they were the villain. In Matthew's case, he wasn't Jennifer Hills. He also wasn't the villain of this story. He wasn't even a named character. He appeared in one scene, and disappeared forever. No matter how hard he dreamt of ascending to protagonist-hood, he would always and forever be the background character. The kind with a somewhat distinct design, but otherwise nothing notable about him.

Still in his adrenaline-fueled stupor, Matthew wondered, as Adriano and his goons kicked the shit out of him, if maybe this was the build-up for his real revenge. Something much more widespread, where he'd turn back the clock, find everyone who did him wrong and shoot them dead. But when a steel-toed boot connected to his face, it knocked some sense into him. 

This was not a movie. It wasn't a book, either. God was false. If he wasn't false, then he was simply an awful person. If he wasn't false, then Matthew would go straight to Hell. If he wasn't false, he would've slaughtered Matthew years ago, instead of forcing him to continue breathing in his ragged old skin. A skin that got more ragged every day. Blood dripped on the pavement, he was long since stripped of his riches. He could've used those to start over.  _Maybe then_ , he thought,  _my father could finally be proud of me_. He could drive to an apartment and move in, and 'no jury would ever convict him'. He'd finally become a real human being again. He missed it, he missed being a real human being. So much that he dreamt about it. The little bed in his apartment, the soft old couch, the crummy TV he owned -- the kind with antennas on it. 

He'd failed the priesthood. It wasn't Dee's fault.

It was all his own.

Jennifer Hills was an angel. Matthew Mara was a born sinner. And people who hated Jennifer Hills' story, they knew people like Matthew Mara. Born sinners. Those drawn in by a fantasy, a volatile one that never truly seemed to work out. They were all smart enough to know that revenge only came to the worthy. Matthew was not worthy. Matthew was pinning his problems on everyone but himself, and now he was laying in a parking lot, bleeding and bruised and sobbing.

Old Crybaby Cricket, just bawling his eyes out on the asphalt. 

Matthew didn't care whether that movie was good. He just wanted to be pure, more than anything. To wash away all of the pain in the shower. It made the dirt go away so easily, but he scrubbed himself until it stung and, in reality, he didn't feel any better. In his heart, he wasn't any cleaner. And that movie, it fed him a fantasy, that maybe one day he would be. But it just wasn't possible. Not anymore. Not like this. Not when he was an absolute fucking speck, digging himself further into the dirt. Allowing memories of being violated to fester until he was essentially just violating himself with those memories. He was no longer human.

He was no longer Matthew Mara.

In fact, he'd been Rickety Cricket for years.


End file.
